


Clandestine

by joannesopercook



Category: The Guns of Navarone (book)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannesopercook/pseuds/joannesopercook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mallory is injured in a fall, Andrea tends to his wounds in a most unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clandestine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sheila_Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheila_Snow/gifts).



**Clandestine**

You awaken in the dark to the feeling of his hands on your body, slowly drawing a warm washcloth over the ravaged places on your skin. You don't know what this place is or how you got here. There is a narrow shaft of moonlight illuminating one side of his face, throwing the other half of him into shadow. When he leans back to moisten the cloth, the moonbeam slips over his torso, briefly sparking silver on each of his buttons. You move your tongue to speak. It feels as heavy as a block of wood in your mouth. "Where?"

"It is my fault." The washcloth dips into the raw grooves the rucksack has worn in your shoulders. The pain surprises you; your body heaves, lurching clumsily through the dark towards him. "I should have seen that you were tired. I should have seen you fall." Such a ridiculous fall for someone like you: a mere lip of rock above a shallow chasm; in daylight or in full possession of your considerable faculties you could have leapt it like a goat, but not today. Oh no, not today. Too tired, perhaps, or just too old. The body can only take so much. Your body has taken plenty already.

The cloth caresses the cut on your cheek. The side of your face feels huge, enormously swollen and throbbing. You remember being in a tavern with him several nights ago: the sharp smell of cigarette smoke, the metallic clink of coins and the soft murmurs of conversation, and something else, as well. The memory surfaces with difficulty and brings with it the taste of _retsina_ and the far-off sound of some lambent love song, playing gently on a mandolin. You only spoke when it was absolutely necessary. The two of you have always been that way, from the beginning.

_Let me._

_No, I have it. These buttons are easy._

Ever since the night when you first loved each other, there has been no physical contact between you and no mention of what happened to precipitate such a gesture. The two of you have a tacit understanding: it was a momentary weakness, born of ferocious loneliness, and it will not be repeated. You avoid touching each other, except for the accepted masculine gestures, always a little overdone. Are you trying to convince him, or is he trying to convince you?

His face is close to yours and you stare at him, trying again to memorize his features. Of course he has always looked the same to you, ever since the day of your first meeting, which seems so long ago now. You came ashore at Crete and he was waiting, standing with a group of ragged men, their belts and bodies bristling with weapons. He didn't speak, but took your rucksack and rummaged through it, throwing out the things you would not need. _Pack light; live longer._ His eyes were deep, obsidian-dark, but never cruel. He has never needed to be cruel. He tossed away the picture of your dead mother in its silver frame; you hated him for this. He caught up with you two days later, on the road to Maleme and gave it back to you, just the photograph. The incident was never mentioned again but sometimes when you are hovering on the edge of sleep, an image of his face swims up at you, mute and unsmiling. The apparition always disturbs you, but you don't know why.

You understand that this road has a defined (albeit meandering) course, and at the end of it he will leave you or you will leave him. You sense his future as an apparition looming out of the shadows and you are deeply frightened. No one knows how deeply frightened you are, almost all the time. The fear lodges in your gut like lead shot, loosening your muscles and turning your bowels to water. In the end he will leave you. One way or another, there is nothing else.

"Turn around," he murmurs. He abandons the cloth and takes a tube of ointment out of his rucksack. Deftly, hardly touching you, he smooths it into your shoulders. The coolness makes you flinch and despite yourself you groan, and something flickers across his features, some memory of the last time. You can't know how that sound affects him; his cock twitches when he hears it. He is sitting behind you on the lumpy bed (what place is this?) hanging over your shoulder, his face perilously close, so close you can see the tiny lines in the plump cushion of his bottom lip, and the shadow of his tightly-groomed moustache. You lean into him, turn your face, expecting something. You brush your opened mouth across his and he jerks away from you. The contrast between this and intimacy is shocking, like cold water in the face. "No," he says. You stare at him. Words flow between the two of you, a river of rage.

"So what was that, the other night?" You ask it, even though you already know. You hope he won't say it; perhaps he's not that cruel, all things considered. There is, of course, so much history between the two of you. This isn't a conversation you ever imagined yourself having with him.

"It isn't -"

"Good enough?" You're outraged, but like you do with so many other feelings, you tamp it down, press the juice from it. You know what is expected of you; you act as though his refusal merely amuses you. "I was good enough the other night." His silence infuriates you but you are powerless before it. "The other night, remember? In the room above the tavern. You were willing to take the risk." You speak slowly, as if speaking to a child but your blood is roaring in your ears. You don't care about your injuries, this place or anything. You sweep him aside and charge out into the night, with no idea of where you are. Greece, you remember. You fell down in Greece. Since God - this notion is grimly amusing; you haven't prayed since you were a child - hates you so much, you're probably still there.

You set off at a rapid pace across the blasted expanse, a landscape from another planet. There were airplanes circling, dropping bombs, the fatal dirigibles blooming into gouts of flame. The sky is huge above you; you walk until you can no longer see the faint and dangerous glow of candlelight from the ruined shack. He should know better. He should understand the risks.

"My Keith." He's standing right in front of you.

"Please leave me alone." You can never bring yourself to be brusque with him.

“You should come in.” His white teeth gleam at you when he speaks. "It's cold out here." He turns a slow half-circle in the dark, the gun tight against his side, his big fingers taking up the first pressure on the trigger, always wary. He has good reason to be and so do you. There are things in the dark waiting to kill you both.

Predictably, you are the first to speak. "I don't understand." Pretend it's recce then; pretend the two of you are out here scouring the hillside for Germans. Miller is out there somewhere in the dark, moving silently and swiftly towards you. There may not be any more time. There may not be anything after this. So many factors conspire to make you fail. You knew this before you even began.

He is shivering in the cold night air. "Come back to the hut." He reaches out, not quite touching you. You understand, then: he means to stop this aberration before it starts. You wonder how he can be so dishonest. You follow him back to the cabin, a fresh argument roiling underneath your breastbone. You wait while he lights more candles, stokes a fire in a fierce tin stove that you have never seen before. You can't stop looking at his hands; they have your full attention. That night, after the first time, after the initial fever was over, you explored each other – slowly, carefully, mapping the strange topography of bodies. His fingers dipped into the hollow of your throat and drifted languidly across your cheek, but his eyes were entirely alert, forever watchful. It's just the way he is. It's just the way he has to be.

He straightens, dusts his hands. The fire crackles cheerfully behind him and this infuriates you. You must know the truth. "Tell me why." No nicknames, no familiarity or friendship. "Why? Am I disgusting to you?"

He does the unthinkable: he shrugs. So you slap him hard across the face. The shock curdles the air between you and you know - you know - that you have surrendered yourself to some abyss or other. This isn't like you, not at all: "Oh God, I'm sorry."

And he slaps you back. Hard. With tears in his eyes. Ridiculous, yes? Like a farce, facing each other across this narrow space, chests heaving with emotion. He's reopened the cut on your cheek, the one Turzig's flashlight made in that horrible cold cave. You can feel blood running down your face. "It isn't possible," he says, as if so many words were an explanation. You turn your back on him and go sit down on the pallet. (Wasn't it a bed, before? Or perhaps that, too, was in your imagination.) For a long time there is nothing but the sound of his breathing. You lie down on your side, facing the wall. You count until you feel the pallet shift underneath his weight; he slides his arm around your waist, his long fingers curving over your ribs. Slowly, his mouth descends to press the nape of your neck, and your belly tightens. His tongue slides out to taste your skin. "My Keith," he sighs. It could mean any number of things. It could mean nothing at all.

You turn your head and your mouths collide, tongues meeting in that narrow space, the tunnel of joined lips. He kisses you like he means to devour you; you open wide and let him. You know that now may be all the time there is. He lifts your hand and takes each finger into his mouth. You watch the contracture of his lips as they close around each digit, sucking. You remember it, that night above the tavern, when he writhed and cursed and prayed beneath you, begging you to let him take his release. You remember how he went panting into his climax, holding your shoulders so tight that his fingers left marks, bruises visible the next day, and for many days after. You clung to him on the narrow little bed, your thighs aching and your body sore, and every night afterwards when you stopped to rest, you prayed that he would touch you, but he never did. What do you see in his eyes now? Is it passion or merely resignation? You feel compelled to speak: "You don't have to do this."

He lies close to you and kisses your neck, the hollow of your throat, your jaw. He holds your head and kisses you until you are sobbing with desire. Years later, you will remember this night as a collage of images, like scenes from a dream: your cheek pressed against his chest; his head between your thighs; his teeth in your shoulder. Your muscles hurt from the long fall down, down into the rocky chasm but such pain is nothing next to this. He comes hard, his long body wrapped around you and you follow him down into it, panting as if you'd run a hundred miles. Miller is out there somewhere in the dark and so are the Germans and you pray that Miller arrives before they do because there isn't any time, there is never any time.

He draws your head down onto his shoulder and strokes the back of your neck, kneading out the tension, the long hours you spend each day in harness, carrying your pack. You are silent. You both have had your pleasures, and the memory makes you foolishly proud. You will carry the image of his ecstatic face with you forever.

This doesn't have a name: in later years, you will never allow such liberties from anyone. You will never be touched by another man, only him. He, in his turn, has been touched only by you. It gleams upon your skin like a brand. His fingers taste your tears. He asks why, "Why are you crying?"

You lie. You say your back hurts from the fall. He pretends to believe you. He waits until you're asleep. "Ah, my Keith," he whispers.

You are not asleep, not really. Your fingers tighten on the arm he has laid across your chest. "I know,Andrea." You say this to reassure him, and yourself. "I know you do."

 

The End.


End file.
